“Unless you intend to surprise me with pastries, you can put down that butterknife.” She froze. She recognized that voice—rich and dark, with all the makings of a smoky night sky. The Hin official from earlier in the night stepped inside with two neat clacks of his patent leather boots, and slid the doors shut again. She immediately noticed that one of his black gloves was off. She’d expected the skin on his hands to be smooth as polished wood, a sure sign of aristocratic upbringing—only it was marked by dozens of pale, crisscrossing lines that puckered on the flesh.
